And her eye-my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's desire-
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.

Shepherd-thoughtfully

Good sir, which way did this one go?

Pilgrim-solus

So, he is off! the silly youth

Knoweth not Love in sober sooth.

He loves thus lads at first are blind

No woman, only womankind.

From the Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Household Edition, by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

GIB HIM ONE UB MINE

BY DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS

A little urchin, ragged, black,
An old cigar "stump" found,
And visions of a jolly smoke,
Began to hover 'round.

But finding that he had no match,
A big store he espied,

And straightway for it made a dash
To have his wants supplied.

"I have no match!" the owner said,
"And, even if I do,

I have no match, you understand,
For such a thing as you!"

Down in the ragged pantaloons,
The little black hand went,
And forth it came, now holding fast
A big old-fashioned cent.

"Gib me a box," the urchin said,
His bosom filled with joy;
And calmly lighted his "cigar,"
A radiant happy boy.

Then handing back the box, he said,
As his face with pride did shine:
"Nex' time a gent'mun wants a match,
Jes' gib him one ub mine!"

A LESSON WITH THE FAN

ANONYMOUS

If you want to learn a lesson with the fan,
I'm quite prepared to teach you all I can.
So ladies, everyone, pray observe how it is done,
This simple little lesson with the fan!

If you chance to be invited to a ball,

To meet someone you don't expect at all,

And you want him close beside you, while a dozen friends divide

you,

Well, of course-it's most unladylike to call.

So you look at him a minute, nothing more,

And you cast your eyes demurely on the floor,

Then you wave your fan, just so, well-toward you, don't you

know,

It's a delicate suggestion,-nothing more!

41

When you see him coming to you (simple you),

Oh! be very, very careful what you do;

With your fan just idly play, and look down, as if to say
It's a matter of indifference to you!

Then you flutter and you fidget with it, so!

And you hide your little nose behind it low,

Till, when he begins to speak, you just lay it on your cheek,
In that fascinating manner that you know!

And when he tells the old tale o'er and o'er,
And vows that he will love you evermore,-

Gather up your little fan, and secure him while you can,—
It's a delicate suggestion,-nothing more!

THE UNDERTOW

BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN

You hadn't ought to blame a man fer things he hasn't done
Fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won;
The waters may look placid on the surface all aroun',
Yet there may be an undertow a-keepin' of him down.

Since the days of Eve and Adam, when the fight of life began,
It aint been safe, my brethren, fer to lightly judge a man;
He may be tryin' faithful fer to make his life a go,
And yet his feet git tangled in the treacherous undertow.

He may not lack in learnin' and he may not want fer brains;
He may be always workin' with the patientest of pains,
And yet go unrewarded, an', my friends, how can we know
What heights he might have climbed to but fer the undertow?

You've heard the Yankee story of the hen's nest with a hole, An' how the hen kept layin' eggs with all her might an' soul, Yet never got a settin', not a single egg, I trow;

That hen was simply kickin' 'gainst a hidden undertow.

There's holes in lots of hen's nests, an' you've got to peep below
To see the eggs a-rollin' where they hadn't ought to go.
Don't blame a man fer failin' to achieve a laurel crown
Until you're sure the undertow aint draggin' of him down.

MARKETING

ANONYMOUS

A little girl goes to market for her mother.
Butcher.-"Well, little girl, what can I do for you?"
Little Girl.-"How much is chops this morning, mister?"
B.-"Chops, 20 cents a pound, little girl."

L. G.-"Oh! 20 cents a pound for chops; that's awful expensive. How much is steak?"

B.-"Steak is 22 cents a pound."

L. G.-"That's too much! How much is chicken?"

B. "Chicken is 25 cents a pound" (impatiently).

L. G.-"Oh! 25 cents for chicken. Well my ma don't want any of them!"

B.-"Well, little girl, what do you want?"

L. G.-"Oh, I want an automobile, but my ma wants 5 cents' worth of liver!"

A SPRING IDYL ON "GRASS"

BY NIXON WATERMAN

Oh, the gentle grass is growing
In the vale and on the hill;
We can not hear it growing,
Still 'tis growing very still:

And in the spring it springs to life,
With gladness and delight;

I see it growing day by day,

It also grows by night.

And, now, once more as mowers whisk
The whiskers from the lawn,
They'll rouse us from our slumbers,—
At the dawning of the dawn:
It saddens my poor heart to think
What we should do for hay,
If grass instead of growing up
Would grow the other way.
It's present rate of growing,

Makes it safe to say that soon,
"Twill cover all the hills at morn
And in the afternoon.

And I have often noticed

As I watched it o'er and o'er,
It grows, and grows, and grows, awhile,
And then it grows some more,-
If it keeps growing right along
It shortly will be tall;

It humps itself thro' strikes,

And legal holidays and all;
It's growing up down all the streets;
And clean around the square;
One end is growing in the ground,
The other in the air:

If the earth possest no grass

Methinks its beauty would be dead;
We'd have to make the best of it,
And use baled hay instead.

From "A Book of Verses," by permission of Forbes & Co., Chicago,